


Compromise

by Siera_Writes



Category: Blur
Genre: Angst, D/s elements, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Smut, circa 1995
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 12:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11737035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: Graham isn't speaking to Damon, and not with Alex, either. He hasn't discussed it with Damon, yet. Jealousy always nips at Alex's heels when he thinks about Damon and Graham. They're friends, practically have been forever, and it shows in their allowances for neuroses, their awareness of the rhythms of each other's speech, the way their eyes light when they smile at each other. It's more than Alex gets from Graham. It's what he wants.





	Compromise

**Author's Note:**

> Whatever meaning you assumed the title to have, it's probably right...
> 
> I feel like I have a couple of wildly different portrayals of Alex, and yet they all feel like continuations of the same character to me, perhaps because he treats himself in that way.
> 
> Anyway, this is an odd one. Went a bit off the rails from what I was already planning on. I'd been struggling to write Dalex from the offset, and I'm not sure this is entirely in character, but it'll do. It's based around those pictures of Damon and Alex from 1995, where all Damon's wearing is a towel. Interesting. Also, Law 18 will be being worked on asap, I just needed something to get myself back into the swing of writing.
> 
> Anyway, this is unbetaed, there're probably mistakes, and I apologise for that. Anyway, if you like what you see, come follow me on tumblr: my url's eviljaffafish.

Graham isn't speaking to Damon, and not with Alex, either. He hasn't discussed it with Damon, yet. Jealousy always nips at Alex's heels when he thinks about Damon and Graham. They're friends, practically have been forever, and it shows in their allowances for neuroses, their awareness of the rhythms of each other's speech, the way their eyes light when they smile at each other. It's more than Alex gets from Graham. It's what he wants.

But both he and Damon are being ignored at the moment, though it isn't for a lack of trying. Lately, for his troubles, Damon's been receiving a cool you'd be dealt in the Arctic, bristling, all subdued violence thrumming beneath, and Alex doesn't try at all. Not when he's like that. Graham's easiest to talk to when he's just beginning the fresh journey of quenching his self-hatred on liquor before they head on stage, pliant in his relief at being able to let himself loose. Alex can make him laugh, then, receive overenthusiastic, sunny smiles, whooping laughter, and it only half makes up for the guilt in his stomach. This isn't healthy. Graham needs to stop this.

For the afternoon, he and Damon are sharing an apartment in New York. It's finely decorated, with a high ceiling, an obtrusive level of luxury Alex finds himself partial to, if just to remind himself that the last few years haven't all been a drawn-out hallucination. He really is here. And life is a little bit of hell.

His seat's back is firm and unyielding, hardwood, dark and elegantly built, and the material of the chair's cushions feels luxurious to drift his hand over, even with its severity. Uncomfortable. He ignores the discomfort. He's trying for louche, or as rakish as he can manage in a day-old polo-shirt, slim trousers. He can hear the shower running in the adjoined en-suite next door. He answers the journalist's questions idly, not focusing too much, not overthinking. He's grown used to this as time's gone by - it's quite old hat to him - so he sits back and fires off the occasional jab to keep it lively, punctuating his speech with vulgarities, colourful descriptors. He's quite aware of being photographed, preens a little, morphs his smile into more of a smirk which rests on one side of his lips more than the other, teeth showing - slightly apart, sharkily. He only lifts his hands to gesture when the impact of it is required.

He feels himself draw back a little when the shower stops; it's all at once, a silence from the next room, before he acclimatises, and the smooth whir of the extractor fan becomes noticeable again. Already he can feel himself shoring up his walls again. It's not that he doesn't trust Damon, it's just that they're competitors, in a way, and Damon is blunt, and astute. If he'd tried in school, actually worked and dedicated himself the way he has to Blur, Alex is sure Damon would've done as well as he himself did. It's the one thing he can lord over him, feel superior about, but he doesn't do that. He's not sure why, or when, but at some point, holding back an effective insult moulded into trying to spare feelings, and Alex is again struck by the insidiousness of human feeling. It's not that they don't fight, it's just that they don't like being so callous as to be inhumane. Alex tosses his head, removing his fringe from his eyes, huffing a laugh softly as it slips across his vision again.

The lock on the door clicks, and Alex can feel the attention of each person in the room shift, so their eyes are on him, but a portion of their focus is tuned more to their ears, to hear the entrance of Damon behind them. He can see it in their eyes, a slight, momentary blankness that they blink away, try to suppress as they continue to listen to his answer. Alex is the only one looking Damon's way as he leaves the bathroom, and Damon's gaze skims over the backs of their heads and towards him, their eyes locking while he continues regaling his story.

Alex flinches slightly, eyes shuttering as he takes in Damon entirely, smile fading, going less bright, speech stilted for a second before he ploughs onwards. Typical, typical of Damon; they're always in some form of tussle, a passive-aggressive war of attrition to see who breaks first. And fuck, it was him. Of course, his interviewer sees this, and so does the photographer, and they both turn to look at Damon - Damon who's being wilfully provocative with only his ubiquitous beads around his neck, and a towel precarious around his hips. He's crossed to the dresser on the side of the room assumed as his, picks up a thick silver chain, fastening it with deftness with his less dominant hand, arm pressed against his lower abdomen to hold it in place. Alex can see the ridge of his hipbone with the high lighting, cast from fixtures set in the ceiling.

Alex turns his head away, as though to afford him privacy in his state of undress; of course, Damon wants to be seen, and it's pretty hard to avoid him. He pulls the gravity of the room into his corner: it's difficult to keep looking away. Certainly, the others are drawn to him. Alex is encouraged to stand up, and he does, laboriously, feeling the urge to pull out a cigarette and smoke, even though the rooms are supposedly non-smoking. Alex smelt it in the air when they entered: that the rule was rarely observed. He drifts grudgingly over to Damon, beckoned to stand next to him, even as Damon's picked up the phone to call for room service. No doubt he wants tea, something herbal. Alex could kill for a decent cup of coffee, but he won't be getting one here. He'll still drink it.

Damon's skin's still glossed by water, and here and there droplets are melting away on his skin, evaporating, one tracing down the slope of his shoulder, and another the curve of his neck, beneath his jawline. He eyes Alex sideways as he hovers close, lashes thick and dark, seeming uncharacteristically demure as he speaks calmly into the receiver, head titled a small angle to the side, an edge of coyness inhabiting his body language. His lips are vivid from the warm water against them, hair messily tousled from drying brusquely, profile noble. His right hand is clasped tightly around the edge of the towel, belying his relaxed exterior - Alex knows Damon hates being put on the spot, is always on edge around journalists. He moves closer, to distract from that one tell, and Damon's lips press into a thin, but thankful smile, fleeting, but aimed at him.

Alex brushes close behind him, bending his knees and hunching slightly, pulling a face over the other man's shoulder, the material of his polo contacting with Damon's skin, and the slight tackiness left by cursory drying, leaving a damp patch there. He doesn't move, lets the photographer get enough shots, before being directed further to Damon's side - a little less risqué - so Damon smoothes out his right hand where it's held over the hem of the towel, looking casual, but Alex has to smirk. Everything about Damon during shoots and interviews is calculated, even the slight bashfulness occasionally drifting over his features, as he tips his head to look at the floor. Choreographed so well, Alex thinks he's the only other person in the room who knows, and it's only through years of exposure to him. He's a canny one, is Damon.

After a few more photographs, with increasingly embarrassing posing - beaming, winking, foolish mannerisms that burn him up inside, and Damon looks even less happy, discomfort heavy in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, vulnerable as he is in his undress: only Graham would've been less willing to participate. He isn't sure why Damon dressed how he did. Alex blinks as the photographer packs up his camera, their interviewer gathering her notebook, pen, both looking fairly ruffled from the experience, if the haste of their exit is anything to go by. 

Alex stares at the door, watching them go, pulls out a cigarette, a matchbook, and lights it. "What are you doing?" Alex jolts back to reality, eyes glancing over the wall as he inclines his face a little further towards Damon to answer, watching both pairs of legs until the closing door fully blocks them from view. He feels like being petty.

"Je fume." He walks idly towards the windows, a double floor to ceiling affair, panoramic expanse of the city on the other side, turns the lock and inhales as he opens the door, sounds of the road drifting up, carried by a breeze that catches and lifts his hair. 

"You don't have to say it in French - I know what you're doing. I meant, 'Why are you smoking in here?'" Irritation drips from Damon's words, his tone vastly unamused. Alex ignores him. The sun's lowering in the sky, light moving through the spectrum from white to a warmer yellow, so he pushes through the gap, sideways, the heavy curtain helping to press the door closed, and heads onto the little balcony, his steps muted, feet bare except for socks. There's a bit of chill from being this high up, this exposed, and when he exhales, the smoke's snatched ragged from his lips.

The space is small, mo more that three feet deep, but quite wide. It's fenced off with wrought iron railings in a square, basic patterning, elegant in simplicity, parallel lines and right-angles. A small metal table with a single matching seat awaits to be used, but the slight gathering of water near the lip of the table on the far-side suggests neglect, table not quite level. Alex goes through his cigarette at a steady rate, foregoing the seat, people-watching from this lofty vantage. He can hear Damon vaguely puttering about, then answering the door, no doubt for whatever it is he ordered earlier - Alex can't remember, wasn't exactly paying much heed. He's shivering as the embers burn away the last of his smoke, so he drops it to the floor, a little gladly, treading heavily on it, leaving it twisted, crushed, still smoking as it dies.

Slipping back inside is welcome, the warmth a pleasurable shroud. He shuts the door behind himself, feet icy, heat sapped by the concrete. He only notices Damon after he's halfway to a cup of coffee, left to go cold on a small table near the as yet unused television. He still raises it to his lips testing its temperature with his left hand against the thin china. Lukewarm, barely tolerable. He knocks it back anyway, meeting the baleful eyes of the man he's sharing the room with. The sole kingsized bed hasn't gone unnoticed by either of them, and probably not by the journalist and photographer, either, but Alex made sure to leave his luggage beside the generous sofa, hoping they'd take it to mean it's a fold-out bed. He isn't sure himself.

He suppresses a winces at the room-temperature coffee - better than stone-cold tea, after forgetting about it - then lounges against the wall, directly across from Damon, who's seated quite primly on the bed, noticeably on one side, not in the middle, propped against pillows. He hasn't changed, and Alex can see the pattern he breathes in, quite clearly. Damon drinks from his mug, the lower part of his face hidden, so all Alex can see of his face is his eyes - scrutinising, intent - and his brows, dark, such a contrast to his hair. They've had days of travelling and interviews and no time in between for release, and Graham's been avoiding them, avoiding being in a room alone with either of them. His cock twitches at Damon's leisurely perusal, the hunger beneath it.

He glances down into his cup, at the shallow ring of coffee left in the base, swallowing hard at the impulsive taunts he wants to throw, to egg Damon on, to jeer at him until they're in each other's faces, press Damon down to his knees. Damon's smirking at him from behind his drink like he knows - Alex can tell, just from how his eyes have narrowed through some sort of mirth. Bastard. As if in response, Damon rearranges his legs, so they rest apart on the sheets, the material of the towel dipping in the gap between them, covering his groin. Alex blinks owlishly, licks his lips without thinking, taking in how Damon's grin widens as he places his mug down on the table beside him, then lets both his hands fall to rest prostrate on the almost pristine white sheets, colour slightly darker where Damon's legs have left water behind. He looks everything but harmless, even as undefended as he is, slouched on the bed.

Alex, cautiously, circles back to the table he got his mug from, and leaves it back without a sound. He walks towards the side of the bed Damon's half-reclining on, slowly, tilting his head as Damon watches him, jutting his chin up stubbornly as he's looked down upon. Alex smiles. "Did you order any food?" He's going for casual, isn't sure that it's quite worked. There's a terseness to his voice: he's not sure quite how much of a mistake he might be making here, whether the tenseness and air of flirtation between them is just the result of their long competition for Graham's affections, and now they're both cut off, they're just circling ever closer to each other, whether it be an ultimately beneficial thing or not.

Damon bares his teeth, as manufactured a fake smile as he can conjure. "No." He hasn't moved, hasn't adjusted, remains perfectly still other than to track exactly what Alex is doing with hawk-like sharpness. Damon's all edges, always has been with Alex. He only ever sees a glimpse of the true warmth he's capable of when he's interacting with Graham.

Alex frowns, sardonically. "Why not?"

"Why not?" Damon quirks an eyebrow imperiously, moves to stand on his knees in a surprisingly fluid motion, his usual clumsiness fallen away, then heads towards Alex. Like this, their heads are almost level, Alex's usual advantage stolen. Alex backs away, lips curving into a smirk as Damon keeps advancing. "I've been busy." A smirk tinges his voice.

"Busy doing what?" Alex chuckles as Damon leaves the bed, dropping to his usual height, seeming more pissed off at his own body than Alex's, if the way his shoulders tense slightly is an accurate reading on Damon's current thoughts.

Damon hums, thin smile turning feral. "Just... thinking..." He reaches for the collar of Alex's shirt, and he can't bring himself to pull away, goes with Damon's forceful pull to equalise their heights, which unbalances him slightly, so he presses his palm to Damon's back, moving them closer together, so Damon's left having to steady himself. Alex kisses him, soundly, wetly, no preamble, returning them to the bed at a speed that means Damon stumbles slightly, indignant words no doubt springing to his lips, only to be forgotten as he pushes up on his toes so they can kiss without straining their necks. Damon's towel's slipping loose - not that he seems to care - but Alex can feel the drag on the heavy material against his thigh as it comes undone, hanging around his waist for a second or two before falling completely to the floor.

Damon's eager against him, that much Alex can already easily feel, and he himself isn't any less inclined. There's something about Damon, the way he fights Alex the whole time, fiery, frenetic, pulling at Alex's top and urging him to strip off, that gets under his skin and makes him want to get Damon to the edge and leave him to beg, get that infuriating voice pleading, for him, for release. He lets Damon scrabble at his trousers to undo the button, and his fly, as he pulls the polo shirt off himself, shivering at the cool over his skin, at the anticipation, and as Damon sinks to breathe hotly against his cock through his boxers, then nuzzles at the skin to either side, Alex exhaling shakily as the movement tugs at the material of his underwear unpredictably.

Like this, Damon's a sight. His skin's perpetually a healthy tan, and knelt down, Alex can see the vertebrae, backs of his ribs, prominent through his thin skin. Damon's never looked scrawny, but he can look delicate, and it contrasts with the strength of his waist, his legs: a footballer's build. Damon's already reaching to pull down his boxers, and he helps, steps out of them drawing Damon up and flush against him, pushing him the further backwards step required to knock into the bed, fall downwards in a rush. He's already scrabbling up the bed to be better positioned, feet planted wide apart and knees falling outwards.

Alex shakes himself, a frisson going down his spine at the single-minded urgency he's been faced with. He pulls his socks off, stalks across the room, woodenly, to his suitcase, unzipping it with choppy motions, rooting through with little care for condoms, some lube. Damon moans breathily from the bed behind him, and Alex almost doesn't want to see what he's doing. When he finds what he wants, he lurches to a stand, then chokes, is almost stopped in his tracks by the sight of Damon, circling his forefinger around his entrance, toes curled, right hand clenched in the quilt. His cock stands proud, untouched, knees dropping close to the mattress. The man is a delight and a surprise, and Alex is taken aback by the look of tortured bliss on his face, surely played-up, but effective all the same. His legs feel wobbly, and he vaults onto the sheets, to stop himself from the possibility of falling.

Damon's eyes are still squeezed shut, but the shift of the bed signals Alex's arrival, and he smiles in acknowledgement, tipping his head back against the pillows, so his neck's bared. Alex watches him swallow as he draws closer, the bob of his throat, and he can see the raised pulse beneath the skin there, and also in his chest, with the beats of his heart. Alex casts a shadow over him, and when he kneels between Damon's legs, his knee just being brushed by Damon's left wrist, his eyes flicker open, pupils blown and eyes glassy, stopping the movements of his hand, withdrawing, open to Alex in a way he finds unnerving. Honestly, this could be the beginning of some new power-play, and it wouldn't be a shock.

He scoots the last few inches closer, trailing his fingertips over the taut skin of Damon's abdomen, feeling the laboured breaths of the man beneath him, as he wanders closer to his groin, before bypassing entirely to the inside of his thigh. Damon sighs, eyes falling closed again, lashes long against the subtle bruises below his eyes: they're all tired, ready to sleep, but restless, and this is the best way they've found to burn away that excess energy. It's easier to rationalise it to himself like that, feel less like somehow, he's betraying Graham with his actions, right now.

The plastic bottle clicks open, and he pours a generous amount into the palm of his hand, slicks his fingers, continues working at Damon where he'd already begun, marvelling at the tendons in his neck. He wants to lean down, fuck Damon into the sheets, kissing him the whole time.

He will.

Damon's already bitching at him that he's ready, even as Alex adds a third finger, so he continues moving his hand in small thrusts, every so often moving a little further, a little deeper, so he can brush Damon's prostate, prompting a cracked gasp, an octave higher than his typical speaking range, but mainly focusing on teasing him, making little progress, keeping him wanting. Damon curses brokenly when he pulls out.

Alex takes his time, stroking himself, before carefully rolling on the condom, pouring out more lube, making sure he's covered, coaxing himself to hardness. Damon's lay back, staring at the ceiling, a sheen of sweat in the hollow of his neck. Alex positions himself, hands on Damon's hips, brushing his thumbs over the prominent ridges of his hipbones, drawing him up, and pressing forwards, guiding himself in. Damon's hot around him, and Alex groans, suddenly without breath. He presses in with small thrusts of his hips until he's as far inside as he can can reach. He moves to lie flat over Damon, covering him as completely as he can manage, skin tacky together.

Alex laves at Damon's neck, the line of his clavicles, tasting some salt on his skin, but he's mostly clean from the shower. He begins moving his hips, small, testing movements at first, before increasing the depth, leaning up to lick at Damon's lips in order to request access as he does so, and Damon, again, is open to him, willing, reciprocates eagerly, tongue tracing against Alex's, but mostly allowing himself to be kissed soundly by Alex, moans muffled between them, wanton. He doesn't know how Graham copes, knowing he's turning Damon down every night, when he's like this. It must be bad between them, so bad Alex doesn't even know how wide the cleft is.

He thrusts harder, and Damon raises his legs to encircle Alex's waist, locking at the ankle, pulling them close, so tight together. Damon's cock's between them, leaking pre-come - Alex can feel the slick of it on his stomach - and he looks gone, eyes unfocused as his thrusts keep hitting Damon's prostate, back arching beneath him, writhing in Alex's grasp, until he comes, freezing for a second, hot between their stomachs.

He hadn't realised how close he was, and it gets to Alex, makes his brain short a little, movements of his hips becoming irregular, the image of Damon, seized in ecstasy, ingraining itself in his mind. A few more stuttering thrusts of his hips, and he's coming, biting into the firm muscle of Damon's shoulder, surprised at himself, the situation he's found himself in, how it all unfolded. He's reluctant to move as he gets his breath back, except for the semen, cooled between them, growing uncomfortable. He feels self-conscious in a way he never expected he would, or could, around the other man.

Carefully, he pulls out, still dazed, floating as he removes the condom, ties it off, steps towards the bin to throw it away. Damon is still lay there, an arm thrown over his eyes, ribs working as he regains control of himself, seeming unconcerned of the come on himself. Alex shivers, cold in the room all of a sudden, moves into the bathroom to clean himself off, expecting that once he's done he'll bring a washcloth with him to do the same for Damon. Instead, he's interrupted by a cough, Damon announcing his presence in a manner Alex hasn't experienced: he's nervous. Huh.

Titling his head, Alex takes him in, the oddly potent appeal of him. He's not been blind to it, exactly, but he never expected it to become more... he's not quite sure what. Evident? Affecting? Neither describes it wholly.

Damon steps close, though there's still space between them, a warmth Alex can feel. Damon raises his palm and cradles Alex's cheek, the slip of his fingers soft, oddly tender. There's a light in Damon's eyes he doesn't want to think about. If they stand here much longer, he thinks Damon might burst into tears. He misses Graham so much.

Instead, Alex raises his own hand, covering Damon's fingers threading together, smiling weakly back at him. He steps back into the shower, switches it on, waits for it to get up to temperature before gingerly stepping back in. Damon follows him, dropping his hand when he can get under the spray completely, and Alex lets him, drifts away so he has room to wash himself again, swipe at his stomach until it's superficially clean, then pours out some shower gel, repeating the earlier process of showering, letting the water sluice over him.

After a few minutes, Alex realises he must be crying, silently, head bowed, tears mingling. So he steps forwards, haltingly at first, to embrace Damon, their limbs sliding together as the water falls over them. Alex isn't sure what to do, tries rocking them slightly, cheek pressed into Damon's hair, feeling it plaster against his cheek, and Damon's sobs subside as time passes. Damon's face is buried into Alex's chest, arms tight around his waist. It's comforting, oddly so, to hold, and be held, warmed at the same time. Alex lets him keep holding on as he washes his own hair, scrubbing at his scalp, tipping his head back to make sure the suds don't get on Damon, just allowing him to be propped against him. It's obvious he needs it, and that Graham's probably suffering too, only he'll be out, suppressing it with drink.

That makes Alex's blood chill, but there's little he can do here. He's needed, and he needs this. Before today, before this early evening, he hadn't even known, couldn't have. He just soothes Damon through it, carding one hand through Damon's hair until they can no longer reasonably remain ensconced in the shower together. They leave, dry off, and sleep.


End file.
